Run for Your Life (19 page)

When I glanced back over my shoulder at my apartment house, I could see two of my kids in the kitchen window. Fiona and Bridget, was my guess. Maybe they were missing their mom as much as I was. Wishing she was still around to take care of them, cheer them up, make things right again.

I waved up at them. They waved back.

“We’re hanging in there, babe,” I said to the wind. “By a toenail, maybe, but what can we do? I love you, though, if that’s any consolation.”

When I went up to my apartment, Mary Catherine met me at the door. Something was wrong. I could see a troubled look wavering there in her usually stoic blue eyes.

“What is it, MC?” I said.

“Seamus,” she said gravely.

I followed her into my bedroom. Seamus was beached on top of the covers. His eyes were closed and he looked even paler than usual. For a second, I honest–to–God thought he was dead. Then he let out a string of gasping coughs, his thin chest shaking beneath his Roman collar.

Oh, Lord, I thought. Really not good. He’d finally caught our flu. Which, for an eighty–plus–year–old like him, was extremely dangerous. It suddenly hit me how stupid I’d been to even let him come around. I panicked for a second. What would I do if I lost him, too?

But I would lose him anyway, one of these days, an evil little voice whispered in my ear. Wouldn’t I?

I shook off the thought, went to the kitchen, and got the bottle of Jameson’s from the cupboard. I poured a couple of fingers into a Waterford crystal tumbler and added some heated milk and sugar.

“God love ya, boy,” Seamus said to me, after taking a couple of sips. “Now give me a hand out of bed, and I’ll be on my way back to the rectory.”

“Just try to get out of here, old man,” I said. “I dare you. Lay there and finish your medicine before I call an ambulance on you.”

Chapter 67

I was still standing over Seamus when my oldest boy, Brian, ran in.

What now?

“Dad! Mary Catherine! In the kitchen! Quick!”

I raced after him into the hall. The kitchen had gone dark. That was all we needed right now — some kind of blackout. Damn prewar building’s wiring was falling apart just like everything else. It would probably start a fire. I sniffed for smoke in the walls and tried to remember where I’d put the fuses.

“Psych!” yelled all my kids as the light flicked on.

On the kitchen island, two plates were set up with Tombstone pizzas on them. They’d even made a salad. Trent was pouring Diet Cokes with the dish towel draped over his arm, like a three–and–a–half–foot–tall sommelier.

“Now, hold on a second. You guys are supposed to be in bed,” I said as Mary Catherine and I were ordered to sit. “And what did you do with all the dirty dishes?”

“Chill, Pops. It’s all being taken care of,” Jane said, pushing in my chair for me. “We’re feeling better now. We decided you and MC need to take a load off already. You work too hard. You guys should learn to relax a little.”

After we were done, coffee was prepared, and we were led into the living room.

What happened next was incredible. The vacuum came on. Assembly lines formed. Toys and art supplies miraculously rose from the floors and furniture and returned to their proper places. One of my little jokers started to sing “It’s the Hard–Knock Life” from Annie as he scrubbed at a puke spot with a wet paper towel, and the rest of them joined in.

As I sat there on my beat–up sectional, sipping my too–sweet coffee, something brightened in my chest. Though Maeve was gone, she had accomplished a miracle. She’d taken the best of herself — her sense of humor, her love of life, her ability to do for others — and somehow injected it into my silly kids. That part of her would never die, I realized. That could never be taken away.

“Dad, stop! This is supposed to be making you happy,” Julia said.

“What are you talking about? I’m thrilled,” I said, wiping my wet face. “It’s just the Pine–Sol. It always irritates my eyes.”

Chapter 68

It was coming on eight P.M. when I got back to the Blanchettes’ building on Fifth. I parked at a hydrant on the Central Park side, and before crossing the street I rapped a hello on the party rental van where the Emergency Service Unit guys were staked out.

My buddy Petie, the doorman, waved to me as I stepped under the awning. He had a new partner with him now. I grinned when I saw the face underneath the ridiculous green hat. It was ESU Lieutenant Steve Reno.

“Good evening, sir. May I get you a psycho?” he said, touching the hat brim with a white glove.

“I wish somebody could,” I said. “No sign, huh?”

“Not yet, but I did make ten bucks in tips. Mike, did you know these Blanchette people are holding a charity fund–raiser tonight? How does that make sense when our guy’s only joy in life is offing filthy rich New York types?”

I was stunned. “Are you kidding? A fund–raiser? Is that right, Petie?”

He nodded. “It’s been scheduled for months. Too late to cancel.”

I shook my head. I still couldn’t believe it.

“Which part of ‘your psychopathic son–in–law is coming to gun you down’ aren’t they getting, do you think?” I said as I headed for the elevator. Not to mention that they just learned that their daughter and granddaughters had been brutally murdered.

When the butler opened the penthouse door, I spotted Mrs. Blanchette out by the pool. A maid was standing beside her, and an elderly Latino man in maintenance clothes was sitting at the pool’s edge, apparently about to slide into the water.

“What’s going on out there?” I said.

“Mrs. Blanchette dropped an earring in the deep end,” the butler explained as the maintenance guy submerged himself.

“Why don’t they just drain it?” I said.

“It wouldn’t be refilled by the time the first guests arrive at nine, sir. Mrs. Blanchette insists on tea lights during the cocktail hour.”

“Of course,” I said. “The tea lights. What was I thinking?”

The butler’s face had a peculiar, pained expression. “Detective, perhaps you should have a word with Mr. B.,” he said. “I’ll fetch him, shall I?”

I nodded, wondering what that was about. As he hurried off, I walked out to the pool to try to talk sense to Mrs. Blanchette.

“Ma’am?” I said.

She whirled around like a sequined cobra. The contents of the big martini glass she was holding sloshed onto the maid’s dress. I could tell from her eyes and her breath that she’d already downed several of them. Maybe drinking and staying busy were her ways of working through her grief.

“Get me another one,” Mrs. Blanchette said impatiently, thrusting the glass at the cowed maid. Then she turned her attention to me.

“You again. What is it now?” she said.

“I must not have been clear about the danger you and your husband are in,” I said. “Your son–in — I mean, Thomas Gladstone — is targeting you, without question, as we speak. It’s not a good time to have people over. I’m going to have to ask you to postpone.”

“Postpone?” she said furiously. “This is the Friends of the Congo AIDS Benefit — in planning for the last year. Steven is flying in from the coast just for tonight. Sumner actually cut his vacation short. Do I have to supply last names? There’ll be no postponing anything.”

“Mrs. Blanchette, people’s lives are at stake here,” I said.

Instead of responding to me, she ripped a cell phone from her bag and flipped it open.

“Diandra? Hi, it’s Cynthia,” she said. “Could you put Morty on?”

Morty? Oh, Lord, I hoped it wasn’t the Morty I thought it was. I didn’t need that name dropped on me. Not even an ounce of it.

She stalked away, talking. The maintenance guy, up for a breath of air, stared at her back and muttered a Spanish word that was not used in polite company.

“You said it, amigo,” I told him.

When she came back a moment later, she shoved the phone at me, with a look of triumph on her face.

“Who is this?” came a harsh male voice.

“Detective Michael Bennett.”

“Listen up, Bennett. This is Mayor Carlson. There’ll be no more crazy talk of canceling this event. We can’t cave in to terrorism.”

“It’s not exactly caving in to terrorism, sir.”

“That’s how it will look. Besides, my wife and I are attending, so that’s an end to it. You call the commissioner and tell him to beef up security. Do I make myself clear?”

Right, I felt like telling him. A highly visible police presence will really be great for our trap. What did another bunch of dead citizens matter, compared to twisting by the pool with the A–list?

But those were the kinds of thoughts I grudgingly had to keep to myself.

“Whatever you say, your honor,” I said.

Chapter 69

As I walked back inside, I met the butler returning with Henry Blanchette. I’d never seen a more unhappy–looking man.

“I’m sure you’re finding my wife’s behavior somewhat odd, Detective,” he said.

“That’s not my job to judge.”

“She has a very hard time dealing with stress,” he said with a sigh. “There’ve been times in the past when much slighter things than this have pushed her over the edge. She goes into denial, drinks, and takes pills, and she’s impossible to deal with. But soon she’ll break down, and then I’ll take her to a discreet clinic, where they know her well. So if you’ll just bear with us for a little while longer.”

“I’ll do my best,” I said, actually feeling sorry for Henry. On top of his own grief and the danger of the situation, he had a crazy woman on his hands.

For the next half hour, I followed the mayor’s orders. I called Chief McGinnis, and within minutes a dozen plainclothes cops and detectives arrived on the back elevator along with the caterer.

I finagled the guest list from the butler and stationed two cops at the penthouse door with it, although it wasn’t like they’d really need to match names to faces, what with all the Hollywood, Washington, and Wall Street celebs due to arrive. I got several more men to pose as waiters, and even posted a couple of detectives outside by the roof pool. With this maniac, who knew? He might try to scale the building like Spider–Man, or maybe paraglide onto the roof.

Then I made a security check, going upstairs and wandering through the cavernous duplex apartment. This place could have fit even my family comfortably, and would still have a few rooms left over. I passed by his–and–her master bedrooms, marble bathrooms that ancient Roman emperors would have found plush, a white–on–white French château–inspired library with an ornate, coffered ceiling. Any minute, I expected to turn a corner and find gold and gems just dumped out onto the oriental rugs like pirate treasure.

I was passing by yet another bedroom when I heard human sounds. It was probably just one of the platoon of maids, but better safe than sorry. I drew my Glock and held it down beside my thigh.

But instead of a maid, it was Mrs. Blanchette that I glimpsed through the doorway. She was sitting on a small canopy bed, crying. Her husband arrived at her back and embraced her, his cheeks wet. She rocked back and forth, keening, her fists squeezing and pulling at the bedspread as he whispered in her ear.

This was their daughter’s room, I realized as I reholstered. I regretted all the negative thoughts I’d had about her. Despite appearances and her bristly personality, the woman was going through hell. A place I knew all too well.

I retreated as quietly as I could. At the top of the stairs, I spotted a photo of Erica, with a man I assumed was her first husband. They were walking with their daughters on a glowing white–sand beach beside deep blue water, laughing, the wind whipping their hair back.

As I stared, I thought of all the pictures I had of Maeve and the kids. All the happy moments, frozen and captured forever. That was it, wasn’t it? What life was all about. What could never be taken away. The moments shared with family and the people you loved.

Chapter 70

I coordinated security from the Blanchettes’ grand–hotel–sized kitchen — the farthest, most out–of–the–way corner of it that I could find. The last thing I needed was to be standing by the penthouse’s front door when the mayor arrived, so hizzoner could give me another earful.

Despite the short amount of time we’d had to beef up security, we’d managed to do an excellent job. Fortunately, the employees of the Blanchettes’ upscale catering firm had worked UN events and presidential fund–raisers, so we were able to get background checks from the Feds without too much fuss.

It was the guests and hosts who turned out to be the pain in the butt. When we insisted on bag checks at the door, I thought some of them would have to be sedated. We reached a compromise only when a borrowed metal detector was shuttled up from the Manhattan criminal courthouse, on the order of Mrs. Blanchette’s good friend the mayor.

About the only high note came when the Cajun head chef, Maw–Maw Josephine, heard that one of the Midtown North detectives had volunteered down in the Big Easy after Hurricane Katrina. Next thing we knew, all us cops were getting hooked up with as much gumbo, shrimp, and corn bread as we could stuff ourselves with.

It was ominously quiet during the first hour, as the most favored guests arrived for the pre–event private dinner. Of course I was relieved that everyone stayed safe, but on the other hand, I was hoping Gladstone would make a move so we could nail him to the floorboards. His unpredictability was burning a slow hole through the lining of my stomach. Or was that Maw–Maw’s Tabasco jambalaya?

I’d just done my hundredth radio check with the bored–stiff ESU gang across the street at Central Park, when Beth Peters rang my cell phone.

“You’re not going to believe this,” she said excitedly.

“What? We got him?”

“Get over here to West Thirty–eighth near Eleventh Avenue, and maybe you can tell me,” she said.

What the heck did that mean? And West 38th? That was where the French photographer had gotten whacked.

“Come on, Beth, no games,” I said. “What’s going on?”

“I’m honestly not sure, Mike,” she said. “I just really need you over here. The scene’ll be easy to spot. It’s the building with all the fire trucks out front. Oh, yeah, and the horses.”